5/24/2002

2:53 PM

Logfile from Sk'lar.

 

Main Living Cavern

Melodic laughter rings throughout the spacious cavern as riders socialize with one another, boasting of adventures a-dragonback, and gossiping about stodgy wingleaders and sordid affairs. Drudges rush past you, their arms laden with dishes and mugs of Klah, desperate to relieve themselves of their burden while pesky 'lizards inhibit their progress.

The light from the glows warmly illuminates the domed cavern and shimmers off the walls as miniscule mineral particles reflect the soft lighting like twinkling stars blanketed in a wintry gray sky. Numerous tables lie scattered across the room, some large enough to hold a whole wing of riders while others were made only for two.  Towards the back, a large hearth breathes soul soothing warmth into weary bodies as its flames dance with hypnotic grace and puppet flickering shadows across the spacious stone stage.     Sultry, mouth-watering aromas float in from a small archway that leads to the kitchens while chattering can be heard emanating from a wide hallway.

Flopped atop various perches are Fallon and Mysti.

You see S'am, Telgar Weyr Menu, A small runnerbeast carving, kitten carving, and Reni here.

Annie and Adrian are here.

From here you can go:

Lower Caverns             Bowl                       Infirmary                

Kitchen                   Gaming Room                                         

(

Eveningtime finds Annie picking through the buffet assembled of dinner's leftovers, pickily filling her plate with odds and ends of comestibles. A slice of roast herdbeast here, a dollop of mashed tubers there, a bubbly to top the whole mess off. A glass of wine is procured, and she turns to make her way to the head table, only to see one of her unloved bronzeriders in her path. "Move," she grumbles at Sk'lar.

 

Sk'lar is lacking the toddling of his movements from days previous. Actually, he is managing to get around far better than feeling his way along the walls. With wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face, so as to shield still light-sensitive eyes, his head is lifted just enough so that he can see all 'til table-top height and still be shadowed. Steps take him in the direction of the hearth-side table, more than determined to get his own foot today. He can even go to the privy by himself! Woo! "Good day," he murmurs to a pair of legs as they move to stand before him. Alas, he doesn't move.

 

Adrian looks only slightly lost, for he knows where he is, but this place is where he keeps ending up no matter where he goes...  Painter-boy sighs and rolls his eyes, "An' how come I haven't asked anyone?"  This is said mostly to himself.  He soon throws up his hands and gives up, finding that he's more hungry than worrying about trying to get wherever it is he's trying to go.  A small plate is picked up, but as he moves down the table of food, the contents on his plate begins to pile - We've got some fish fingers (lots of those), a few samples of cheese and a large piece of klah cake.  Yummy...  Cromite moves to a table, but before he catches the rudeness, of a certain woman, to the bronzer.

 

Adrian

Tall, dark and well, handsome. What more could you want? The boy stands at a pleasant height. Locks of ebony have been trimmed short, yet still remains having a slight curl and shaggy, though respectable, appearance. Darkly tanned face helps emerald eyes stand out as they give off a hint of his curiousity of his surroundings. Defined jaw is slightly tilted upward to show a bit of arrogence which will always be noticed. His features are slightly rugged, yet refined with an artistic grace, both manly and proper. The boy's frame is built well - chisaled arms, chest, torso, etc, yet hands are nowhere near rugged or worn. Fingers are delicate and are capable of holding a slender brush and paint with precision-perfect strokes. Thin lips are set in either a smile, or devilish smirk, accompanied by a wink or two.

What seems to be a unique blend of clothing, an idea which could only be conceived by one with an intensely creative mind, resides upon his body. The main shade upon his tunic, of red, has been splashed upon it with many different tints of the solitary color. Thin strands of thread, gold, purple, azure and grey, outline the shirt in intricate designs creating an interesting effect. Wrapping snugly around his thin waist is a dark tanned hide belt. A pair of trousers are worn, also colored a dark tan shade, which drift down over a pair of dark brown boots. Always accompanying the boy wherever it is he may go, is a large, satchel, which has been dyed a deep jade. Yellow shoulder strap wraps around one shoulder, across his chest, torso and behind his back. Residing in the satchel are usually many hides, rolled up like scrolls. Could they be official documents, or judging by his unique appearance, paintings?

He is awake and looks alert.

Carrying:

 DaVinci                                                                      

 Paint Satchel

 

Annie

Murky depths of olive settle in a faded, befreckled countenance above thin lips, while a coppery-toned autumn mixture -- reds, oranges, browns, and golds -- wisps about her head; the hair is cropped functionally short at her chin, tickling persistantly at nose and cheeks. Average height is accentuated by a gaunt frame, boniness protruding at all angles and curves, distressingly, wont to be found. A lanky creature, she moves cautiously, but with a smoothness practiced over turns which, along with faint crinkles about the eyes, betrays obvious maturity.

Loose leather trous -- borrowed -- hang from her hips, held in place by a simple belt. Dark in color, they hold a somber backdrop for the lively spring green of the too-big jacket. Well-worn gloves are on hand when needed; when not, they poke from jacket's pockets. Omnipresent scuffed boots are, of course, there, and a cap lined with age-ratted fleece is ready to smoosh her shortened locks out of harm's way.

Double cords of white and black twine with a silken ribbon of desert gold, looping thrice over one bony shoulder. Golden thread binding and a pair of tassles marks her as Telgar's Senior Weyrwoman.

She seems to be in her later thirties.

She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 4 minutes.

Confidence abounds-- one might fear she has found her niche at Telgar.

 

Sk'lar

Rukbat-gilded hair of varnished mahogany tops this lad's head while being rooted deep in a rogue's shadow. Olive-complexion attunes his round face, only furthering the character of the single dimple upon his left cheek and the blanch of a hair-thin scar that trims opposite dark eyebrow. Copper's shavings flicker in the saturated depths of his sepia-imbued eyes, lending a sparkle to an otherwise dark presence. Form is thin, still dealing with adolescent's growth with muscles ever striving to keep up with the heights this boy's body is yearning for.

Fine tailoring gleams true with the elaborate and seemingly frail weave of virgin-white sisal shirt, string-laced front and long sleeves. Top is tucked into a pair of tight-fitting wherhide pants set to shine in a depthless marine blue complete with gold piping trimming down the legs, boots are dyed an oddly roguish sable. And the icing -his riding jacket of blue and gold, the perfect covering for any debonair pirate of the skies.

Black and White twine about, dressed with a thread of shining bronze. This knot is delightfully new, proving not only that he is a member of Telgar Weyr, but a WingSecond at that. The badge of the Skyskimmer Wing is not far from it.

He is awake and looks alert.

Sk'lar just looked at you.

 

Annie is a certain /Weyrwoman/, actually, and she feels it is her right to be rude, /especially/ to bronzeriders. She ignores Sk'lar's 'good day' and merely continues her grumbling. "I said to move, Sk'lar, and you're still just standing there-- and why are you wearing that stupid hat indoors at night?" She shifts her plate from one hand to the other. She obviously has not been keeping up on Weyr gossip -- normally should would know /instantly/ of a rider's wrongdoing. Especially a bronzerider.

 

"Oh, allow me," Sk'lar murmurs with great dramatics, doing something very close to sketching a bow as he steps off to the side, waving a hand negligently in the direction of the path she seems to desire to take. Alas, it doesn't have quite the punch as he would normally give it. Yeah, and he recognized the voice... and her shoes. "Uh, Hyn's fashion sense is rubbing off on me?" The new fashion trend, bronzers in brimmed hats. And he continues on his seemingly leisurely path towards the food table. Hopefully Ashki hasn't been cooking in the kitchens again. He doesn't think his stomach could take much more of the young man's 'talents'.

 

Annie seems to have forgotten her trek to the table, and instead trails after Sk'lar. Perhaps she is bored. Perhaps she is lonely. But she won't admit to being anything other than In Charge. (Annie finds it absolutely /wonderful/ to have a Weyrleader who /never/ scolds her for /anything/ she does -- this is the life!) "You should take it off," she persists. "You probably can't see a thing under that brim, and you better not knock anything over just because of that silly hat, because I'll make you clean it up." Nag, nag, nag.

 

Sk'lar is stalked, this is new. He manages to find the plates, and precedes to settles things along the line of meatrolls, breaded redfin, and even quite the collection of greens on his plate. He meanders down towards the breads, "No, I sure can't see much, and that is is point. But its amazing how many people in this Weyr really should invest in new boots.... such as yourself." He finds roll that isn't too hard, setting it on the plate, "Haven't knocked anything over yet." If it isn't a Healer nagging at him, it'd just have to be a weyrwoman. Figures.

 

Ri has arrived.

 

Annie's first instinct would be to kick Sk'lar with her ratty old boots, but she restrains herself properly. Weyrwomen cannot be impulsively violent, she reminds herself, it's bad for morale. "Would you have me purchasing extravagant new boots every other sevenday and letting all the Weyr's children go hungry due to my excess?" she asks icily, idly dipping her finger in her mashed tubers and licking it off. "Anyway, take off the hat," she orders. "You're indoors." This is /so/ much nicer than Ista! She never gets in trouble for anything here!

 

Ri slides out of light leather jacket as she hits the cavern, the room's dimmness temporarily blinding the demi-rider. At hearing Annie's voice, she pauses.. waiting to see just who is getting it from the gold rider at the moment. No need to walk heedless into trouble.

 

"Not unless you wish me to be howling to the stones, and have a flurry of healers on your case. No." Hah! Annie is being denied, and it isn't even for spite, but true healer's orders. Sk'lar even takes perverse pleasure in that little two-letter word. "No." He turn about to slowly make his way to the first available seat and plunk down into it, albeit a littler slower than usual.

 

Annie trails persistantly after Sk'lar, betraying the fact that she is /obviously/ bored, /obviously/ nosy, and /obviously/ just picking a fight for fun. Love her. She plops down right next to the young bronzerider, setting her plate of rapidly-cooling food before her. "Why can't you? Why would the healers be on /my/ case?" she asks, tone a bit peevish. "/I/ haven't done anything wrong." See, Sk'lar is Annie's pet project: how quickly can she drive her pet over the brink?

 

Ri sighs.. Sk', she should have known.. But in this particular sistuation, the bronzer-boy is right.. "Weyrwoman Annie, Sk'.." Proper salutes offerd, even as she grits her teeth about saluting Sk'.. "Actually, Sk'lar is correct in this istance. He's still recovering from a severe case of firehead and requires the protection offered by the hat." The healer in her is far more formal then the rider, did you notice? "And SkySkimmer sends thier best Sky.. J'avia is hoping to see youa s soon as you are released."

 

Sk'lar can give as good as he gets. Alas, he isn't exactly in top form at the moment. Shame, really. Spork nudges the greens a little to the side to avoid the spilling gravy from his mashed tubers. "Because I like it. The healers like it. Tarlin likes to see me in it. And it brings out the color of my eyes." That would, naturally, help if one could actually see his eyes. D'oh! And then Ri actually had to go and tell her he is some kind of invalid. "J'avia?" *twitch-cringe* As soon as she finds out he is making excursions out of the infirmary, he is dead.

 

"Firehead?" Annie's eyes narrow to mere slits as she turns her gaze to the hat-wearing bronzerider. "How did you get /firehead/?" she asks pointedly, spearing a slice of roast. Her gaze flickers to Ri. "How did he get firehead?" Ever notice that Annie is perpetually out of the proverbial loop? That's what happens when you're a Weyrwoman /and/ a Wingnut. She adds, as a little afterthought, "And if you're so sick, what are you doing out here? You should be... somewhere. Convalescing."

 

Ri says, "Ummm.." Let's let Sky-boy answer that first question.. No way she's going to explain about the breaking of the quarentine. "Well, he is far enough in his healing to be allowed /some/ movement about, as long as he styas inside, close to the infirmary." Ther, and she better be right and Sky had best not just made a liar of her. "so, he is convalescing. he can't ride or between to go anywhere else."

 

Sk'lar clears his throat and ducks his head, seemingly finding endless interest in the food on his plate. Spork prods at the breaded fish now. *poke-poke* "Well, I suppose people generally get firehead when they go South. Tarlin's case was lighter. And I'm just getting over it now, its been about a pair of months now." Which, if she put the math together, would land that at around the time of the quarantine. Mmmmm. Look, a meatroll.

 

Annie hasn't put two and two together. Yet. "What were you doing at Southern?" she asks, munching away contentedly at her food. One might think that she is actually /happy/, now -- that she actually enjoys annoying the living daylights out of people. To Ri, she offers a little nod, considering this, remembering the greenrider's healing experience. "I guess it's alright, then," she admits slowly, regarding Sk'lar not being in the infirmary.

 

Ri sighs in relief, for the moment. Greenrider heads away from the table to grab some food, Liuth having fed, it's her turn now. Funny how her lifemate's appetite always affects her before Li eats, but she never feels better after the dragon is full. "So, how are you, Annie?" Lame, but it /might/ sidetrack her, ni?

 

Sk'lar is actually out at the Healer's okay, and not sneaking out like just the other day. *cough* Anyway.. "I was spending some time /alone/ with Tarlin." She wouldn't question too deeply into that, would she? "You know... /together/." Nothing more satisfying in this world than to keep the Weyrwoman clueless. He tilts his head back enough to look to Ri and still keep his eyes shadowed, grin tickling at the corners of his mouth as he chews upon a meatroll.

 

Annie offers Ri a little smile as she continues to graze on her meal. "I'm doing well," she responds. "Serath is lovelier than ever, you know." Serath is always the most important topic of Annie's conversation. She glances back over to Sk'lar. "Time alone? Together?" She wrinkles her nose. "Why on Pern would you need to go all the way to /Southern/ to do that?" she asks.

 

Ri says, "I'm glad she is Annie." eeeps, how could she forget to ask about the gold? Ah well, look.. the rider is still focused on Sk', so she's fairly safe.. "Yea, Sky? Whyever did you have to leave Telgar?" There.. a neat distraction as she fills a plate and grabs a bowl of soup.. Oh wait, Tarlin said to stay away from the soup, never mind. "Hunter and I find the weyr quite private enough." Smirk."

 

"Because it wasn't Telgar?" Sky suggests softly, that naturally being the entire point. Away from infected Telgar. He moves on to enjoying his mushed tubers, swishing the gravy into them with thick strokes. His grin quirks, "I'm sure you and Hunter have a fine time up in your weyr, Ri. You two, Liuth, and your pillars. But there is nothing wrong in spending time in a beautiful tropical locale /away/ from the rest of the populace." Notice how he keeps bringing up how secluded it was. Yes, their own private quarantine. He must emphasize that point, before the heavy hand of 'authority' starts beating on him.